by Ken Goddard
“The TX-twelve-twenty is an experimental sound suppressor being developed for our Special Ops teams,” Colonel Sanchez explained. “It’s very classified, top-secret—which means it’s a device that even law enforcement firearms experts like Mr. Dawson here shouldn’t know anything about—but it seems our development engineers have a difficult time learning to keep their traps shut.”
“What?” If possible, Brass now looked even more confused.
“The incredible thing is, “Bobby said, “the design engineers must have figured out how to incorporate nanotube fibers in the baffle stacks—nobody thought it was possible to assemble ten billion of the damned things in a precise cylindrical alignment. You can only see them—or, actually, the tiny scraping marks against the copper jacketing of a bullet—with a scanning electron microscope. I’d heard about the concept, and when I saw those markings under the SEM—or at least what I was pretty sure were the markings, because nothing else I know of leaves markingsthat fine in copper—I called the colonel, because we’ve met before out at the range, and I figured he ought to know about this.”
“And Mr. Dawson is correct: it’s a damned good thing he did call, because ofthis, ” Sanchez said as he reached down and pressed a key on the laptop.
Instantly, the slightly rain blurred image of a rock-and-boulder-strewn ridge appeared on the far wall.
“What’s that?” Brass asked, thinking that the image looked familiar.
“That’s an overall shot from the Toledano shooting scene up on the mountain that Gil took just before he followed you over to the place where you found the deer carcass,” Archie explained.
“And that’s the photo that was on the wall when the colonel and I came in here looking for you and Gil,” Bobby continued. “Only none of us noticed what the colonel saw immediately.”
“The upper left corner—where you see the two small light reflections—if you will, please,” Colonel Sanchez directed, and then waited patiently while Bobby quickly manipulated the image on the laptop screen. Moments later, the image on the far wall changed.
“What the hell is that?” Brass whispered, feeling a chill run down his neck.
“That is a TX-twelve-twenty sound suppressor—or silencer, if you prefer—mounted on a standard military M-24 bolt-action sniper rifle,” Sanchez replied.
“No, I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Captain,” Sanchez said. “The individual holding that weapon is wearing a standard Army sniper Ghillie suit and night-vision goggles, and he has placed himself in a classic position to observe…or to take action.”
“By take action,” Brass said softly, “you mean—?”
“Kill his target…or targets,” Sanchez finished. “I understand there were two of you up on the mountain at the time this photograph was taken.”
“What in the hell is a military sniper doing up there…on a federal refuge…aiming a rifle at us?” Brass demanded, barely able to get the words out through his constricted throat.
“First of all, the man in that photograph—if I’m correct as to his identity, which I believe I am—is no longer a U.S. Army sniper…or a military criminal investigator…or even a member of the military. In fact, we were under the impression that he had died in a rather violent accident six months ago.”
“You can positively identify him based on that photo?” Brass asked, staring at the blurred image that he wouldn’t have even recognized as including a human form had Sanchez not pointed out the specific pieces of equipment.
“I’m certain of the identity of that sound suppressor, because of its distinct shape, and because it’s the only one missing from the very few we have in our inventory. The fact that it was checked out to First Sergeant Viktor Mialkovsky at the time he was supposedly run off a mountain road and into an extremely deep lake by an intoxicated truck driver leads me to believe that we are looking at a resurrected First Sergeant Mialkovsky. That and the fact that Mialkovsky lost the little finger of his left hand in Afghanistan—ironically, by his own knife, while he was busy cutting someone’s throat—leads me to believe we have a positive identity. You can just barely make out the fact that the fourth finger is not present on the left-hand glove holding the stock of that rifle.”
“Jesus,” Brass whispered.
“Indeed,” Sanchez responded, nodding his close-cropped head in agreement. “As you may have gathered from my comments, First Sergeant Mialkovsky was—and apparently still is—an extremely competent and extremely dangerous individual. The fact that your CSI happened to take that photograph at the very instant he was raising the rifle—thus generating the reflections off the night-vision scope and his night-vision goggles that I noticed in the photo Mr. Johnson was examining—was pure happenstance. Had it not been for that bit of bad luck on his part, I doubt you would have ever known he was up there.”
“Wedidn’t know,” Brass whispered. “We had no idea—”
“Your problem, of course, is what he was actuallydoing up there,” Sanchez said sympathetically. “I gather from talking with Mr. Dawson that a member of organized crime—a Mr. Enrico Toledano—was found shot and killed at that location earlier this evening?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Brass said.
Sanchez frowned. “That’s unfortunate, because it strongly suggests that First Sergeant Mialkovsky was somehow involved in that shooting…which also suggests that he’s now making use of his considerable skills for less-than-honorable employment.”
“As a professional assassin?” Brass whispered again, his face pale.
“That would seem to be the case,” Sanchez said. “It’s certainly not the first time we’ve had one of our soldiers go rogue, but the interesting question is: What was he still doing up there on the mountain when that picture was taken?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How long had Mr. Toledano been dead before you and Mr. Grissom were up there examining the scene?”
“I don’t know.” Brass shrugged. “At least an hour or two…probably more.”
“Which makes very little sense,” Sanchez said, “because a professional assassin with the shooting, recon, survival, and evasion skills of a man like First Sergeant Mialkovsky should have been long gone from the scene within minutes of his kill. There’s absolutely no reason I can think of why he would have stayed around, unless…” Sanchez stared directly into Brass’s widening eyes.
“Us?”
“It’s a plausible explanation,” Sanchez said, “except for one minor thing.”
“You mean, why didn’t he kill us when he had the chance?”
“No, I mean why didn’t he kill you, period?” the colonel corrected. “It would have taken him two seconds with the rifle, at the most…or he could have used a knife…or a handy rock…or even his bare hands.”
“But we were both armed,” Brass protested.
“With pistols?”
“That’s right.”
“And I gather you weren’t being…evasive or defensive?”
“We were standing up in open view, looking around the scene with flashlights,” Brass rasped as awareness sunk in.
Sanchez smiled sympathetically.
“But therewere helicopters overhead,” Brass added.
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “Ours?”
“No, one of ours…and a Black Hawk from the DEA,” Brass said.
“Then it wasn’t you he was after—or, at least, not at that moment,” Sanchez said after a brief hesitation. “He wouldn’t have viewed those choppers as a significant threat or hindrance. Perhaps whoever he was waiting for hadn’t shown up yet.”
Brass suddenly blinked in shock. “You’re saying he could still be up there?”
“If First Sergeant Mialkovskywas waiting for someone to arrive, or something to happen, it doesn’t sound like your people have done anything to scare him off…and he certainly wouldn’t be bothered by the inclement weather we’re experiencing right now,” Sanchez said with a slight smile. “W
hy, is that a concern?”
“Grissom’s gone back up there with his entire team,” Brass said, his eyes wide with realization.
Sanchez’s head snapped up. “They’re back on the mountain…where that picture was taken?” The colonel’s dark eyes were flashing dangerously.
Brass nodded mutely.
“How long ago?” Sanchez demanded as he pulled a cell phone from his belt.
“I don’t know,” Brass admitted. “Forty-five minutes…maybe an hour. They’ve got to be climbing up the trail from the road, because our helicopters are still grounded.” He fumbled for his own cell phone. “I’d better warn them—”
“Wait, do you have encrypted communications?” Sanchez asked as he quickly thumbed a pair of buttons on his phone.
“Not with these cell phones,” Brass replied, hesitating.
“Then don’t try to warn them. Mialkovsky will be monitoring your frequencies; you can count on that.”
“But—”
“This is Colonel Sanchez,” the military officer barked into his cell phone. “I’m calling an Echo-Charlie-Romeo alert…repeat, Echo-Charlie-Romeo…full platoon—both squads—night-vision gear and live ammo. This is not a drill.”
Sanchez paused for a moment, listening to whatever response he was getting from the duty officer.
“Furthermore, advise Captain Jambeau, Lieutenant Maddox, the two squad sergeants, and all insertion and support units that their designated target is First Sergeant Viktor Mialkovsky.”
Sanchez paused again.
“That is affirmative; First Sergeant Mialkovsky is apparently alive and now functioning as an active enemy combatant in our immediate area. Metro police discovered one DOA on the east side of the Sheep Range linked to his activities, and there may be others in the area. Advise all units that Mialkovsky is armed with a Mike-twenty-four rifle, an Alpha-Tango-Nora nightscope, and a Tango-X-Ray-twelve-twenty suppressor, and that he appears fully equipped for night recon. I’ll coordinate our access into the refuge. Advise all units also that a Metro CSI team is responding to that location now, and they are unaware of Mialkovsky’s presence.”
Another brief pause.
“Yes, put the Apaches up in support, but remind the crews there are armed police investigators in the immediate area who don’t know we’re coming…and we’re not going to warn them because Mialkovsky is undoubtedly monitoring their radio traffic. We want zero collateral damage on this op; repeat, zero collateral damage. Advise all units they have a green light to shoot on confirmed sight, or in response to any hostile fire; my authorization. I’ll confirm at the scene. Over.”
Colonel Sanchez quickly returned the cell phone to his belt and then stared directly into Brass’s eyes.
“Captain,” he said, “I need to speak with your chief, immediately. We’ve got some very serious legal issues to resolve.”
20
GILGRISSOM, NICKSTOKES, SARASIDLE, and Officers Lakewell and Carson all stood at the top of the trail, working once more to catch their breaths as they looked out across the rocky clearing with their night-vision goggles.
From Grissom’s perspective, in the cold and drizzling night air, the multihued green expanse of rocks and boulders looked even more eerie and foreboding than it had a few hours earlier.
Once he got his bearings, he shut off his night-vision goggles and flipped them up and away from his eyes, and directed the others to do the same. Then he turned on his high-intensity flashlight and began picking his way gingerly around the rocks and boulders to the ridge where he and Brass had first observed the sprawled body of Enrico Toledano.
“This is where we found his body and the silenced rifle,” Grissom said as he pointed out the two sets of bright green outlines with his flashlight beam. “Over there—”
He redirected the glaring beam to a distant spot in the middle of the clearing that suddenly glowed a faint green.
“That’s where we found the mule deer.”
He shifted the beam one more time.
“And directly over there—in a straight-line path from here through the deer position—is where I found the expended casing, and what appeared to be a crudely arranged prone-shooting station.”
For a few seconds, four more glaring flashlight beams played over the huge expanse of rocks and boulders.
Finally, it was Sara who spoke the words that all four investigators were thinking.
“Are you really expecting us to search this entire clearing with flashlights, before daybreak, and actually find something…without snapping our ankles in the process?” she demanded.
“No, I’m not,” Grissom said as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
“But I thought you said—?” she started to say, and then hesitated as Grissom briefly held up his hand for silence, quickly punched a series of buttons on his phone, and then held it up to his ear…spoke briefly to someone at the other end…checked his watch…and snapped the phone shut. Finally, he knelt down, opened up his kit bag, and removed five full-face-shield respirators and five fresh cans of bright fluorescent green spray paint. He handed masks and cans to each member of his team, and then stood up.
“I assume both of you are both qualified to wear a respirator?” he asked Lakewell and Carson. Both officers nodded.
“Good. The filters in these masks may clog up pretty quickly,” Grissom went on, “but that shouldn’t matter because the wind and rain will work in our favor…and we’ll only have a few minutes to find something anyway.”
“We’re going to wear a respirator, in the rain, because we’re worried about a little spray paint?” Carson asked.
“No, not exactly,” Grissom said, as he stared up at the sky. “Ah, there they are.”
Four sets of eyes followed his pointing hand, and they all saw the running lights of the LVPD helicopter climbing slowly and then finally hovering a hundred feet or so over the clearing where it connected to the trail. From their position, they could just barely make out the lone figure of Greg Sanders standing in the open doorway of the familiar aircraft.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nick said as he first stared out at the helicopter, then down at the mask and spray paint in his hand, and finally back at Grissom.
“It’s a very sensitive test,” Grissom said.
“Yeah, it is,” Nick agreed. “But over a couple of acres of rocks and boulders, in drizzling rain, and after a pretty serious storm? Do you really think it’s going to work?”
“It certainly should.”
“Okay, so tell me, guys, what exactly are we going to be trying to avoid breathing by wearing these masks?” Carson pressed.
“Three-amino-phthalhydrazide,” Nick replied as he began adjusting the straps on his mask.
“Luminol reagent,” Sara added as she began to readjust the straps on her mask. “It reacts with the iron in hemoglobin to produce a cold chemical luminescence that can be detected with the human eye. The reagent’s really not all that dangerous, but we’re going to be applying it in a very nonstandard manner, and there’s nothing wrong with being careful,” she added.
“A luminol test for blood, sprayed from a helicopter, in the middle of a rainstorm?” Carson stared at Sidle as if she’d lost her mind.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, pointing at Grissom, “it’s his idea.”
Grissom gathered everyone in close. “What we’re going to do is position ourselves as equidistant as possible over this clearing, crouch down, wait for the helicopter to make the first spray pass—and remember, they’ll have to fly in pretty low or the luminol will disperse too far—and then quickly look for any sign of chemiluminescence on the ground or in the rocks.”
“A bright bluish glow,” Sara translated for Lakewell and Carson.
“Correct,” Grissom said, “and it won’t last long, especially considering the dilution factor of the rain, so we really will have to move quickly. The instant you see any sign of a bluish glow, run over and spray a circle aro
und the area as fast as you can with your paint can. The green paint will fluoresce brightly in the visible spectrum for about an hour before it begins to fade, but—”
He quickly checked his wristwatch.
“—that should get us close enough to sunrise that we’ll be able to relocate and search the marked areas for blood-related evidence with some degree of daylight.”
“How many runs do we have?” Nick asked as he helped Lakewell adjust her mask.
“Greg was able to prepare four ten-gallon canisters with the supplies we had on hand. Each of the canisters will be valve-connected to a spray rig that Search and Rescue used to fertilize the lawn out at the heliport last year. I’m figuring one canister per pass, hitting roughly a quarter of the clearing each time with some overlap. And we’ll have a little time in between passes, because Greg will have to wait until the last moment to add the sodium perborate to each canister.”
“Probably a lot of overlap, with this wind,” Sara predicted.
“Exactly,” Grissom agreed, looking around. “Is everybody ready?”
Nick, Sara, Lakewell, and Carson all nodded.
“Okay,” Grissom said as he pulled the respirator over his head, “let’s go find ourselves some blood!”
Viktor Mialkovsky pulled the thin desert-patterned thermal blanket and camouflage net tight around his body and then settled comfortably into his new prone observation position at the far southwestern edge of the clearing, a little less than twenty-five yards from his planned escape point. He was watching the five indistinguishable figures through his nightscope as they pulled the respirator masks over their heads and then ran to five approximately equidistant positions across the clearing.
What in the hell are you doing?the hunter-killer wondered as he observed the figure closest to him—now less than a hundred yards away—suddenly crouch down amid the rocks and boulders.
Then, a moment later, the LVPD helicopter began its first pass, sending a whitish spray from six jets mounted on the landing skids directly beneath the chopper cabin, and Mialkovsky suddenly had a sense of what Grissom might be trying.
